Two Minutes
by Arty vs Eddie
Summary: When John wakes up on an operating table in Afghanistan, his life is changed completely. One-shot, mild JohnxSherlock but nothing substantial.


**Two Minutes**

Written February 13, 2013

Doctor John Watson opened his eyes. The last thing he could remember – the last thing he could remember – he didn't want to remember.

Try as he might to stop them, the memories of that day – that horrible, awful, godforsaken day – and all the empty, lonely days since – came flooding into his mind as his eyes adjusted to the strange light and his senses returned, although he was not aware of having lost them.

He was naked. At least, he felt naked. His back was pressed against a hard surface, probably metal going by the temperature and the texture. There was an annoying beeping coming from somewhere behind him, somewhat slow, somewhat erratic. There were voices and sighs and faces and smiles and other noises he couldn't place and smells he recognized and the beeping comforted him though he still wasn't sure why and – none of it made sense to John. The only thing he knew was that it seemed distantly familiar and eerily different.

_It's like when I was shot in Afghanistan_, he suddenly realized. The table, the faces, the concern, the distant noise, the medical smells mixed with dust, all from that day. That day that was ages ago – a lifetime ago – only a few years ago. As he looked around again he recognized the faces peering down on him in concern and delight. He could even name some of them still.

_Something is wrong_, John realized. When he had awoken on this table years ago there had been relief, of course, but not to this extent. There had been some prayers of thanks. Some tears of joy and grief and worry. But not like this – this was too much. Something was… different? That was the best word for it.

"Oh, John, thank God! You're awake," cried a young man. His light hair was tangled and run through with red clumping streaks, his face pale, his brow still creased with fear and worry. "We were certain you were a goner there, for a minute." The other men who surrounded John nodded, tight smiles playing on their lips, relief in their eyes. John noticed that these men were all covered in blood. Blood covered their hands, their arms, their chests, their foreheads, and was teased through their hair. It was strange for John, lying on an operating table surrounded by smiling men wearing his blood… _His_ blood… John shuddered at the memories forcing their way to the surface of his consciousness and the doctors around him lost their smiles.

"Whe- where am I?" John asked, his voice husky, his throat raw. The screaming, he remembered. "What's happened?" He forced himself to not sound panicked. _Why am I here again?_ he wondered to himself, one of his more pressing questions, one of the few he dared not ask aloud. The other question that bothered him was one that he couldn't put into words himself – it was just a feeling – but if this is real – then what about…what happened to…Sherlock?

The man who had spoken before, Smith, John recalled, looked at John with curiosity and worry. _Does he think I have amnesia?_ wondered John. _Or PTSD?_ "John, you're in Afghanistan. You've been shot."

John remembered this exchange quite clearly, despite the time that passed. It had begun to haunt his dreams after the…incident. Next, Smith would tell him that he'd been lucky. That it had been a routine procedure. That he would have to return home once he had rested. That everything would be fine. That he was lucky to finally leave this bloody war behind.

Unfortunately, that is not how Smith continued.

Smith said, "You're lucky made it at all, John. We've all been worried, and the boys have all dropped by whenever they could. You were doing quite well; we'd removed the bullet and were getting ready to sew you up when you crashed. We don't know what happened, but suddenly, you were flat-lining. It was terrible. You were dead for almost two minutes. We were ready to give up when you pulled through. You've been in a coma for a few hours. We just finished removing the last of the shrapnel." Smith smiled a little, trying to lighten the mood. "You're quite a fighter, Doctor Watson."

John looked at the few remaining faces smiling over him. He didn't know when the other men left, or where they went, but he didn't care. He knew they had done everything to save him. And they had succeeded. What of those wonderful years, his time at Baker Street, with Sherlock? Sherlock! What happened to Sherlock?

John's eyes welled with tears. He now knew why Sherlock Holmes was dead. Sherlock was dead because he, John Watson, wasn't.

Those two minutes were the happiest years of his life. But his friends, his Army pals, they had ripped him from heaven. They had thrown Sherlock Holmes off that building. The day that lasted forever, it was the coma. The pain of the lonely flat was caused by the coma. His spiraling, empty world, his empty flat, his loss, all caused by the very people trying to save him.

As this realization struck him, full force, John broke down and cried. Lying on his back, covered in blood and bandages and bruises and who can say what else, John Watson cried. Surrounded by Army men and toy soldiers he had a long cry. John didn't care that that they saw. That he looked weak. Broken. He had lost Sherlock twice in the span of – two years? two days? two hours? two minutes.

After a while, his tears stopped. His sobs quieted. His breath returned. He opened his eyes, blurry for a different reason this time, and looked up into the big, brown eyes of Smith. The other doctors had gone. John didn't care.

"Is there anything I can do for you, John? Anything you need, I'll do my best to get it," Smith promised. John was still not sure if his first name was Smith or if it was his last name. Not that it actually mattered.

"Can I borrow your laptop? It has internet, right?" John asked, struck with a sudden inspiration. He didn't hold out much hope, but it was still worth a shot.

"Sure, John. Of course. I'll bring it to you once we get you properly cleaned up and moved. There is only so much we can do around here when the patient isn't responding," Smith smiled, "as I'm sure you know." John merely grimaced.

Later, lying in a small bed, wearing a hospital gown, laptop perched on his chest and shoulder bandaged up, John opened an internet search engine. Slowly, painfully slowly, he typed in six words and a mark of punctuation.

He hit return.

He waited, hoping. Trying not to hope. Praying. Fearing his nightmares would become reality for the third time in as many hours.

The page of results loaded.

John hit the top result.

It was exactly what he was looking for.

It had been updated only an hour ago.

John smiled.

He hit the "Contact" button.

Without thinking about it, he typed up his story – his dream – his heaven. He asked if there were any open positions for a blogger. He said he'd need a flatmate when he returned to London. That they could probably get a good deal.

Then he sent it.

He waited. Eagerly hoping for a reply.

_Any_ reply.

And one appeared.

Doctor John Watson smiled at the computer's screen. The blue hue reflected of his pale face. He looked a bit like a madman. But that didn't matter. Because the website was there.

The blog.

_The Science of Deduction_.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

And John was going to live with him.


End file.
